


thank you.

by nightbirdrises



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:11:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightbirdrises/pseuds/nightbirdrises
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine-A02, more computer-minded than human, handles central Ohio’s Internet searches. He’s been trained to to act as a middle man between the user and his or her search engine, working faster than the typical human brain allows thanks to government-funded programs. His existence is secret, but a certain user catches his attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this post](http://ir-dr.tumblr.com/post/73313454002)
> 
> I'd also like to note a quick warning for mentions of questionable treatment by authority (sedation, possibly malnutrition) as well as nearly all of the stuff that Kurt went through in s2 - [tumblr](http://princehummel.tumblr.com/post/73492755591)

Unbeknownst to the general public, an underground government program has its eyes on every Internet search in the country. Through rigorous training and questionable methods, certain individuals are trained to take in each search, evaluate it for security threats, and pass them on to the search engine’s results if no threat is discovered. The humans, after training, aren’t quite human anymore — more than anything, they are biological computers, even called “searchbots.”

Blaine-A02, born Blaine Anderson, is currently the youngest member of the team of hundreds. He’s assigned to central Ohio; oddly enough, it’s the area where he was born. Not that he can remember that meaningless detail. His brain is trained to take in, evaluate, and send off, all at impossible speeds. There’s no room for anything but utterly inhuman focus.

Ninety-nine out of every hundred searches are harmless upon first sight. Blaine-A02 doesn’t think, just moves on. If a search gives him pause, it’s only for a second, rarely two, and then it’s passed on when there seems to be no real problem. His memory stacks the information he gathers on each IP address, the screens in front of him in his tiny, round room providing the smallest amount of outside organization he needs.

 

 _hot tub pregnancy_  — Blaine-A02 doesn’t blink, simply passes it on.

_April Rhodes_

_bowling hygiene!_

_show choir sectionals_

… and so on. Blaine-A02 is young enough (and new enough) that curiosity piques every so often, particularly when searches involving music or fashion crop up, but he soon learns to tamp down that human fault. He’s alone in that room 18 hours a day — an hour is reserved for eating, breakfast and dinner for half an hour each, and the other five hours he sleeps. He has no concept of time, doesn’t know exactly when it is that he sleeps or eats, only that it’s his time to let someone else take over while he performs these necessary human tasks.

As weeks and months pass by, the routine sticks heavy in Blaine-A02’s system so that he doesn’t have the ability to imagine anything different — or to imagine much at all, really. It’s work day in and day out, but is it really work if it’s the only thing you do? It’s not play. For Blaine-A02 and the other searchbots, it’s simply life. They’re part of the system until the failings of the human body catch up with them in age; no one knows what happens after that.

About a year after his assignment to central Ohio, Blaine-A02 makes a single human error that changes everything.

He sympathizes.

It starts off innocuously enough — one IP address seems to have a liking for fashion and thrifting-related searches. It’s normal that Blaine-A02 retains this information, seeing as it’s reasonable to remember patterns and to become aware when the patterns are disrupted in some alarming way.

 

_Marc Jacobs’ new collection_

_cheap Ralph Lauren_

_Lima thrift shops_

Blaine-A02 registers, among every other tidbit of information, something a little odd but not at all threatening; this particular IP address ends each chain of searches with one phrase:

 

_thank you._

He hardly has the mental capacity to spare, but what’s human in Blaine can’t help but feel good whenever he gathers those two words from that IP address. It’s like he’s being validated in what he’s doing, even if it _is_  just shady government work. The person — it’s the first time Blaine ever considers that an IP address corresponds to a person, or people — can’t possibly have any knowledge that there’s a… sort of a person on this end of his or her search.

Blaine-A02, on his next meal break, decides on “his.” It’s not like he’ll ever meet the person, anyway. Unfortunately, after this tiny action of identification with the Internet user as someone human, not a number or set of data, everything goes downhill.

 

_getting slushie dye out of wool_

_bruise remedies_

_how to soothe shoulder pain_

As far as Blaine-A02 should be concerned, this is simply a harmless shift in a search pattern. But he lingers on them longer than necessary, setting aside mere milliseconds he shouldn’t be wasting just to wonder. Searchbots don’t wonder; they  _do_ , mindlessly. 

One thing remains constant:

 

_thank you._

The searches get more distressing — not the-country-is-in-danger levels of distressing, but Blaine-A02 finds his (still so very human) heart speeding up.

 

_heart attack s_

_heart; attcak smyptosm_

_tell me why him_

_plesae_

_how long can you be comatose befor_

_I don’t know what to do_

Then, a short while later:

 

_thank you._

Across the weeks following that incident, which has stuck in Blaine-A02’s brain longer than he would ever dare to admit to the other searchbots even if they were permitted to speak to each other, the searches change again. Blaine-A02 goes so far as to bite his lip when he sees that familiar number flash on the screen, a little worried to see what he’s about to read — not that he would avoid reading it if he could. He’s in no position to help anyone, but… having a glimpse of something real, something that isn’t made up of disconnected words and numbers and code… he savors this one-way connection in a way he’s never wanted for anything since he first discovered the sounds a piano could make in his youth.

And, okay, wow. That’s a memory he hadn’t known he kept. Most get washed away in the training process, shoved aside to make room for the concentration power needed for this task.

Guilt and dull fear quickly join concern and surprise; all these emotions get in the way of his performance. He’d rather not find out what happens if he can no longer keep up, if it’s discovered that he has grown attached to a user even in such a distant way.

 

_Dalton Academy_

_Dalton show choir history_

_how to prove stupid boys wrong_

_sorry_

_if you’re a boy, I’m sure you’re just fine_

_oh god I’m talking to a search engine_

Blaine-A02 almost expects that to be that, but…

 

_thank you._

However, the searches this week don’t end there.

 

_how to confront a bully_

_how to get people to listen_

_why don’t they listen_

Blaine-A02 bites his lip again, finds it chapped, as usual. Suddenly he’s leaping into action, altering this boy’s search (is he a boy? Blaine-A02 can’t be sure yet, but something tells him that he is). He changes the search, directs it away from the intended path and leads the user to an image search of the word “courage.”

He’s not sure if it’ll be of any use, he’s not even sure what exactly prompted him to do this in the first place aside from overwhelming concern that can’t possibly just be labeled as “concern” anymore. But Blaine-A02 doesn’t have words to describe anything deeper, anything that’s meaningful to him. Words are just organized letters, either good or bad, and that’s that. But courage… that’s something he knows. Mama always used to tell him to have courage whenever he’d pull back from a particularly daunting slide at the playground.

Another memory. He’s clearly losing it.

The user doesn’t search anything or even move from the page for a long time. Blaine-A02 has nearly lost himself in other searches by the time a new one pops up from that IP:

 

_thank you, whatever you are. seriously._

For the first time in as long as he can remember, Blaine smiles.

The warm feeling doesn’t last long in spite of the way it persists through hundreds more searches that mean nothing to him, just like they all meant nothing at one point in time. A few days later, there’s another:

 

_is a forced kiss considered sexual harassment?_

_why did he kiss me_

_resources for closeted teens_

_…just in case he needs it_

_dealing with unwanted advances_

_thank you._

Two weeks after that finds Blaine-A02 losing touch with his task entirely as he remains fixated on that one IP address, reading through all the searches and finding the occasional worrying search term, scattered across the past year until they begin coming in at a more steady pace within the past month and a half. They’re only getting worse, but the worst has yet to come.

 

_responding to a death threat? homophobic death threat?_

_what the hell am I supposed to search for this_

_nothing helps_

_I’m sorry_

_I’m scared_

_please help me?_

He can’t. Blaine-A02 isn’t prepared for this kind of emergency. Yes, he considers it an emergency — maybe the country isn’t at stake, but someone’s life is. Someone whose searches somehow always catch Blaine-A02’s attention even when he’s trained against that sort of thing. There’s a personality there, more of one than Blaine-A02 or any of the other searchbots could hope to achieve with their lifestyle. He doesn’t want that to disappear.

A quick mental run-through of the data, and he decides on a course of action, leading the user into a search of hotlines made especially for this purpose. He doesn’t have the experience to know whether it’ll be helpful, but he hopes it’ll do something.

It takes hours. Blaine-A02 doesn’t manage to forget, and his search redirect work is lacking. There’s no way some monitor or someone hasn’t noticed by now, but he can’t help it. He’s worried. Searchbots aren’t supposed to get worried about things, but, well.

Maybe he shouldn’t be a searchbot. Maybe he should be Blaine.

It’s a shocking concept for one so long installed with the lifestyle he has. It also makes an unhealthy amount of sense.

The user returns with a  _thank you_ ; Blaine directs it to an image search of cute animals. The user tries again; he directs it to a news search of positive articles. He stops at that, though, grinning so much it hurts his stiff facial muscles.

 

_can I get a real search in now?_

_oh, good_

_I don’t know how I can repay you_

_I don’t even know if you’re a person or what_

_maybe I should be worried if there IS a person over there, but…_

_anyway_

_I feel silly writing a letter in a searchbox_

_but my name is Kurt Hummel of Lima OH_

_screw the pedophile warning junk_

_I want you to know, I don’t know why_

_just don’t kidnap me, my dad would kill you_

_literally_

_but thank you. really._

_I can’t say that enough_

_I don’t know how/if I’ll get out of this_

_but there’s obviously something *willing* to help over there_

_which is more than any of my friends have done_

_so_

_thank you, again_

_until next time_

_-K_

Blaine doesn’t get the chance to (somehow) respond; a monitor catches on to the “letter” and bursts into the room, shutting down all the screens until all Blaine can see is blackness. He doesn’t fight back (he couldn’t succeed even if he knew how, as small and unused to rigorous activity as he is), he doesn’t make a sound. But his brain, trained to move at impossible speeds,  _shouts_. For Kurt Hummel of Lima OH.

That is, until he’s sedated and his thoughts go dark as well.

 

* * *

 

He lives in Westerville, Ohio. Well, for now.

"Honey bee," his mother calls. "Are you almost finished packing?"

"Yeah," Blaine says, monotone. He clears his throat and tries again. "Yeah, just have a couple more things."

Blaine doesn’t really understand his life at the moment. His mother tells him that it’s normal for teenagers to forget periods of time in their past, but an entire ten years? It’s nothing but black, the occasional dream of blinking screens and being unable to move. It makes no sense and it drives him insane; he sees a therapist with whom he can talk about his confusion and the overwhelming notion that he’s  _missing something_. Not just memories, but something more than that, like something happened to him.

His mom gets anxious and jittery every time he asks, so he’s given up on that in the past few months. His therapist won’t say a thing either, even though he’s sure she must know something.

And now they’re moving, Blaine’s mom says it’s to help clear his head. Blaine wonders if it’s just to keep him from recovering any memories attached to home. Or if it’s to keep him from realizing he doesn’t have memories here.

The paranoia is building. He’ll have to talk about this at his next session.

Once all the bags are in the car and the moving trucks have gone on their way, Blaine slides into the passenger seat and stares ahead, unblinking, pupils following some invisible panels until he can get himself to quit. He shudders, says, “Where are we going?” 

He means to ask just so he can get his mind off of the blank space in his head, but his mom answers, “Lima, honey. Lima, Ohio,” and his emotions flare.

They don’t show. It takes effort for him to show his emotions, strangely enough. Apparently it’s supposed to be the other way around. But they crash through his brain, spike in red-hot colors that fall to tints as cold as ice, voices overlap and words rush around in an impossible spiral.

He can’t make sense of it, so, like everything else he can’t make sense of, he tries to ignore it. This time, he succeeds, and the rest of the move goes off without a hitch.

 

* * *

 

"Are you sure he can— You don’t understand, he’s not ready for this kind of environment. It can’t be Dalton, it’s too far away. There are no decent private schools in Lima, sir—"

Blaine shrinks into the hall, listening.

"Fine. Fine. But if this goes wrong, I’m putting it all on you and your ridiculous cheat of a program."

 _Program?_  Blaine wonders. But the call ends and he hears footsteps; Blaine hurries to look normal.

Normal is starting to come easier to him now, at least.

"Blaine, honey?"

"Yeah, Mama?" Blaine says, stepping into view.

"Oh, there you are." He notes her distractedness, wonders a little more. "You’ll be going to school at McKinley starting this September, is that okay?"

"But…" Blaine trails off, confused.

"You’ll catch up fine, I’m told. All the information should be there in your noggin, you’ll just have to meet with a special counselor for this year to make sure nothing’s actually missing." His mom taps his head with a tiny smile. "Maybe school will bring it back out."

 

* * *

 

The second Blaine walks into McKinley High, he’s overwhelmed. There’s so much going on, he can’t help but try to observe it all. It’s a habit he has for some reason, that he attempts to take in all the information in front of him as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, the concentration he pours into that habit takes away from the concentration he should have on walking; he crashes head-on into someone else just feet from his locker.

“ _God_ , watch where you’re— Oh.” Blaine looks down, ashamed. The voice had sounded harsh, but then, “I’m sorry, I thought you were one of my tormentors. Uh, peers. Are you new?”

"Yeah, my name’s Blaine," Blaine mumbles. The voice is kind now, high and sweet, and the owner of it is wearing very nice shoes that must have cost a fortune.

"As much as I like the fact that you seem so invested in my choice of footwear, I’d prefer to talk to a face, not a forehead," the voice says lightly. Blaine chuckles in spite of himself and looks up. He’s met with a bright, if slightly wary, smile, and a hand held out to him. "Kurt. Kurt Hummel."

Blaine has never taken so much time to observe anything in his life.

Eyes — bright, of an unknown color that seems to have all the contrasting emotions of the sea; hair — a gravity-defiant  _swoop_  of chestnut; skin — pale but far from lifeless, much the opposite, really; clothing — sensible and bold, nothing that a typical high school student could afford, Blaine should ask for tips; expression — open but a little unsure because Blaine has just been staring at him for the past twenty seconds. Oh no.

"Sorry, I— Sorry," Blaine says sheepishly. "It’s been a while since I’ve been out among people."

"Homeschooled?"

"Something like that. Let me help you with your books or something, me running into you was all my fault."

Before Kurt can protest, Blaine’s taking on part of his load and trying on a smile. He likes how it feels. He should look for reasons to smile more often. Kurt shakes his head, a little disbelieving if Blaine’s judging him correctly, and leads him off to his locker, which is just down the hall.

"Thank you," Kurt says quietly after Blaine has put each notebook, book, and folder in place. It’s those words that spark a flood of what can’t be anything other than memories even though it’s just words — line after line of words, some corresponding, each group ending with a simple  _thank you_  until the last one ends with  _-K_.

"Kurt Hummel," Blaine says in awe, and Kurt tilts his head.

"That would be me."

"Kurt Hummel of Lima, Ohio," Blaine says again, mindless of how crazy he probably sounds. But screw it, he has something back. It’s no less of a mystery what’s in his past, but it’s something.

"Are you okay?"

Blaine looks at him. “Honestly, I’m great. A little scared about being here,” he adds, just to give him a reason for appearing off.

Kurt gives him a half-smile. “If you can muster up a little courage, that helps. It also helps to have a friend that can tell you things like that.”

"A friend, huh?"

The locker clicks shut as Kurt hums in the affirmative. “You’re not an asshole, are you?”

"I don’t think so?"

"And, okay I have to say it, what do you think about… gay people?"

Blaine smiles, more words coming to him along with a more recent realization that he’d come to over the summer. “That they’re people just like everyone else. That  _I’m_  a person like anyone else.”

That takes Kurt off-guard; he stares at Blaine, lips parted. “Oh. Well. I’d be happy to be your friend, then, Blaine…”

"Anderson."

"Blaine Anderson. Friends?"

"Friends."

"Great!" Kurt glances up to the wall at the clock. "I think I have time to show my new fashion-conscientious friend around the school. Shall we?"

"We shall."

Blaine follows Kurt, really only half-listening to him. The more he hears his voice, the more the words in his head gain meaning, until he knows without a doubt that the Kurt in his head is the same as the Kurt beside him. And, okay, maybe he doesn’t know how the hell any of that is in his head in the first place, but that’s sure to come with time just like other things have. Little things.

What he’s been able to decipher hasn’t been promising. It’s a lot of darkness and unknown routine, but Kurt’s messages (if they are messages) are bright enough that he thinks he can be okay with whatever happened. It somehow led him to Kurt, he just knows it. Maybe that’s stupid.

But when Kurt sadly admits to his need to go to class, Blaine simply says, “Thank you,” and notices the rush of emotion that wells up inside him just for getting to reciprocate that little phrase.

Kurt grins. “You’re welcome. Remember: courage and cute animals.”

Nodding, Blaine watches him saunter away, confidence bursting at the seams. Kurt defies the limits of words, yet demands that words find a way to describe him because he isn’t the type of person who can be ignored.

If there’s always a Kurt in his present, his past won’t matter so much. Blaine intends to keep this Kurt as long as he can.


End file.
